


dismantle. repair.

by displacedhobbit



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, but the rest of the story focuses on healing, dís is a foster mom, foster parent au, fíli is her biological son, of Dís's husband at least, ori pippin frodo and kíli are fosters, other mental health concerns, there will be a fairly graphic description of child abuse in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-01-23 17:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1574300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/displacedhobbit/pseuds/displacedhobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blood isn't the only thing that holds a family together. Foster Family AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prelude

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends! i am really anxious about posting this, and i may not wind up posting the entire thing, depending on how it is received. this is the prologue, at least. let me know what you think! this idea still seems very ridiculous in my head, so i'm curious to see what you all think. :)
> 
> title comes from a song by anberlin and is in no way any sort of creative creation of mine.

She’d always wanted to be a mother.

Her brothers had teased her for it constantly in their youth, but she paid them no mind. Her mother had encouraged her to pursue a career, and so she had. She’d gone to college, then law school, and became a child and family lawyer, a good one at that, but still, he desire for children persisted. She found it bothered her the most after cases involving child abuse and neglect, because she knew, _knew_ that she could have loved that child more than enough, had it been hers.

She had met her husband in the most unlikely of ways, at a bookstore, no less. She’d perused the shelves for hours and found several new treasures to read and add to her ever-growing home library. But, when she’d gone to check out, she’d realized she’d forgotten her wallet at work, halfway across town. The man in line behind her kindly offered to buy them for her, if only she would have a cup of coffee with him at a neighboring bistro, and the rest had been history.

Their romance and courtship had been a whirlwind. They dated and fell in love and married in just over a year. They were _happy_ , but still, she wanted more. And he did too.

It was difficult for her to conceive. They tried everything from wives tails to medical treatments, but finally, _finally_ they were able to welcome a son, Philippe, _Fíli_ , her wonderful golden boy.

They were whole. They were happy. Life was good and wonderful and blissful.

And then, it all went to hell.

Her husband died suddenly, in a horrific car accident on his way home from work. It had devastated them, her and Fíli. It took them years to get back on their feet again. But still, she felt like something was missing. She went to work and saw the children whose parent’s didn’t love them enough, and she wanted to _do_ something for them.

That was when she delved more into foster parenting. It seemed perfect for her. It would give her _purpose_ and help fill the gaping void in her soul left when her husband departed the earth, and it would help those children who were so, _so_ desperately in need of someone to _care_ about them. She and Fíli had spoken at length about it, even though he had been just nine years old at the time, and he had agreed, and even offered to help her.

Most of the children only stayed for a few weeks...overflow from the adoption agencies, orphans awaiting their new home with their next of kin…but some of them, some of them stayed for a while.

There was Ori, sweet, kind, generous Ori, who’d been passed through the system for nearly two years before he came to her. His parents had died when he was quite young, and he’d been in the care of his elder brothers, but  the middle one was busted for drug dealing and the elder one as an accomplice, and he’d been left behind. He stayed with her for so long and she loved him so deeply that she’d adopted him as soon as the courts had agreed to it.

There was Pippin, rambunctious and loving little Pippin, who’d been abandoned at the orphanage at birth. A beautiful child, he’d been adopted on the spot, but life had not been overly kind to him. He struggled with ADHD, and when he became too much of a handful for his adoptive parents to handle, they sent him back and waived there parental rights, and he came to her. He’d fit perfectly into their makeshift family, had blossomed under her care, and so, in the end, she had adopted him, too.

There was Frodo, sweet little baby Frodo, who’d come to her still an infant. His parents had gone out for the first time since his birth, to celebrate becoming parents, but they were involved in a head-on collision on their way home. Neither survived, but their will stated that Frodo would go to live with his Uncle. The aforementioned uncle was nowhere to be found, having been fond of adventures and traveling, and so Frodo was placed with her until he could be located and Frodo entrusted into his care, if he were willing. If not, she would be the first one in line to adopt him.

Then, there was Killian. Battered, broken, lonely Killian, who needed someone to love him more than anyone she’d ever known.

And damn her if she couldn’t give it to him.


	2. images scar my mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dís learns about Killian's past. She and Bofur make a plan to fix things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mentions of child abuse, minor character deaths, mentions of minor medical treatments (just in case that bothers anyone), emotional trauma (feelings of guilt and worthlessness), unbeta'd writing.
> 
> More evidence as to why I shouldn't write when I'm sad.

Dís has known Bofur for a long time. They’d met after her husband had passed away, in a support group for grieving widows and widowers. His wife had died some years before, from cervical cancer, and, though he’d worked through most his own grief, he chose to stay around and help with the support group. She’d been drawn to him initially due to his kind soul. He always had a smile on his face, always knew _exactly_ what to say to make someone feel better. She gave him a lot of credit for helping her work through her feelings of loss and emptiness after her husband’s terrible accident. In truth, it was him who was the one to suggest becoming a foster mother, as he worked for Child Protective Services himself.

She can’t recall ever seeing him without a smile, or at least a twinkling of happiness in his eyes. Until today.

“He’s…he’s not like the other boys you’ve got, Dís,” Bofur says, voice little more than a hushed whisper. “He’s…it’s bad,” the social worker tries to explain, frown marring his normally cheery features. “Real bad.”

Dís takes a deep breath and worries her bottom lip between her teeth. It wasn’t too uncommon for Bofur to call her in the middle of the night with a child who needed an immediate placement, but it still sat ill within her soul. She’d been lucky with the other children she’d fostered. Most of them had been orphans, or had incarcerated parents, or no next of kin able to take them in. A lot of them were transients, only staying with her for a few weeks at a time. The ones that had stayed for longer she had adopted herself, and she had come to love them as dearly as her own son, Fíli, and none of them – _none_ of them – had come to her like…this. Broken.

“How much can you tell me about him?” she asks, dreading the answer. Sometimes they had a long, detailed story to come along with them, and sometimes there was nothing.

With a sigh, Bofur reaches for a thick folder on his desk. Right then. He has a history. “We were first alerted to Killian’s…situation when he was six, in the first grade. Had some bruising on his arms and his teacher was concerned about him, so she called it in. CPS didn’t find anything suspicious in the home. Mother and father both maintained that he fell, and Killian wouldn’t say a word.” He frowns and flips through a few more pages. “Multiple calls after that. Parents always had a plausible excuse and he never said anything, not even when we questioned him alone. No other potential witnesses for the suspected abuse either. They were… _good_ at what they did,” he says, face twisting with disgust at his own words.

She feels a bit sick at the thought that the poor boy had dealt with abuse for his entire life. “Are you familiar with him?”

Bofur nods and gives her a small, tired smile. “He was my first case. Damn near killed me hat we couldn’t get any evidence on them. It was obvious something was amiss.” With a sigh, he shakes his head and hands Dís a smaller file, one filled with medical records. “Multiple trips to the hospital. Broken bones, ribs, things like that. Parents always showed concern and blamed it on ‘boys will be boys.’ He never talked.” He lets out a frustrated huff of breath. “We _tried_ to get him to talk, to…to do _anything_ for him. Our hands were tied.”

She nods in understanding. Awful as it sounded, it wasn’t terribly uncommon for cases like this to move slowly with no concrete evidence of the abuse and no confession.

“He’s an excellent student. Good grades, good attendance, not a single behavioral issue in his file. Though, all of his teachers noted that he was quiet and withdrawn, that he didn’t really have friends,” he elaborates. “Really gifted writer, actually. That’s how this whole mess got started.” He hands her a lone piece of paper, and her heart sinks as she reads over it.

> _Alone in this world, that is all that we are_   
> _There is no escape, only longing_   
> _And emptiness_   
> _Love and friendship, empathy and kindness_   
> _Are nothing more than a creation in our minds_   
> _A fabrication, a falsehood_   
> _There is no one who will know me_   
> _As I am, as myself_   
> _No one who will know you_   
> _As you are, as yourself_   
> _We are all alone, trapped in ourselves_   
> _Dying to get out_   
> _And be seen for what we are_

“He wrote this for a poetry assignment. It’s clearly pretty heavy for a twelve-year-old, so his teacher was worried about him and called home, talked to the father. Seemed like something was off when they spoke, so she called it in to us.” With a remorseful look, he hands her another piece of paper, one she recognizes as a police report.

“Oh, Mahal,” she breathes out as she looks it over, raising a hand to cover her mouth in sadness and surprise.

“Neighbors called it in before we got there,” he elaborates quietly. “It seems like the father thought he was going to get caught and snapped. The mother was dead when they arrived. Killian…well, he’s beat up pretty badly to say the least. Was unconscious when the police got there; the father probably thought he was dead and left him. Cops said the father was trying to make a run for it and pulled a gun on them. They took him out.”

They fall into a heavy silence as she finishes looking over the police report, realizing the full horror that this innocent little boy has endured.

“And how is he? It’s only been a few hours since…” she trails off, feeling sick to her stomach. This was all too much. She couldn’t imagine any of her boys – adopted or not – having to go through such a horrific series of events. It tore at her heart to think that a _parent_ could be so unbelievable cruel to their child.

“Still in the hospital. They won’t release him until we can tell them where he’s going, and even then they want to keep him overnight for observation, possibly longer,” he explains, sniffling sadly. “He’s pretty beat up. Broken arm and wrist, several broken ribs, probable concussion, bruised practically _everywhere_. Nothing physical that won’t heal in a few weeks time. But he’s…he’s traumatized, Dís. In complete shock, won’t say a word to anybody. It’s…it’s bad. I wouldn’t be offended if you wanted to pass on him. I can find him somewhere else to go.”

She immediately shakes her head. “No. No, no,” she murmurs. “I will take him. _We_ will take care of him, Bofur.”

He gives her a grateful, relieved smile. “That’s good. I think you’re…you and you little family…are exactly what he needs right now.”

“Could I go and see him?” she asks, genuinely curious. “Just so he knows who I am and what is going to happen?”

Bofur nods. “Absolutely. We’ll get started on all the paperwork, get you set up as his caregiver while he’s a ward of the state, and they should let us visit with him, if he’s still awake,” he confirms. “He’s…he’s a good kid, Dís. Heart of gold. It’s…it’s not fair what’s happened to him.”

Dís swallows the lump in her throat. “Then let’s make it _right_ again.”

\------

It’s three in the morning once the paperwork is done. Bofur calls over to the hospital, and they agree to let them in, though the nurse stresses that if Killian becomes too agitated they will have to leave immediately. They walk the short distance to the hospital, and Dís tries to get her head on straight. She is terrified that she will say the wrong thing, that she’ll _scare_ him away. She knows in her heart that he needs to _trust_ her if they are to get him through this. And the boys, she’ll have to let them know that he’ll need a little more space, _especially_ Pippin, who winds up in someone’s personal space more often than not. Fíli and Ori should be okay – they’re both a little older and have calmer souls to begin with. She mentally starts making a checklist of everything she will need to do and get before he comes home with them, and before she realizes it, they’re standing in front of the boy’s door.

“Let me go in first. He knows me at least, has seen me since…everything. Might make it easier,” Bofur suggests, and she nods in agreement. She’s fully content to just _watch_ for a moment, to try and figure out how she can possibly handle this. She keeps her vigil from the door as Bofur tentatively approaches the boy’s bedside, greeting him kindly and warmly.

The boy – _Killian_ – seems to be swallowed up inside the hospital bed. Dark chocolate hair spills out from underneath a bandage wrapped tightly around his head. His face is a mottled mix of blues and purples and black, and his left eye is nearly swollen shut. His right arm is wrapped in bandages and strapped tightly to his chest. His uninjured hand kneads at the white sheet that’s pulled over a rather slender form. His face is blank, listless, and he simply stares at the wall in front of him, not even looking at Bofur when the kindly gentleman makes to speak with him. A myriad of tubes are connected to an IV in his arm, and a heart monitor, though silent, blinks steadily from just beyond his head.

There’s a few moments where Bofur just continues softly speaking to the boy, and, eventually, he turns his head to regard the man warily. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet, Killian,” she hears him say, and she takes that as her cue to step into the room.

Killian flinches immediately at her presence, and she has to swallow down the feelings of guilt and despair that well up in her throat. She didn’t want to startle him, or to make him uncomfortable. She didn’t want to make him feel worse than he already did. She makes her way slowly to his bedside, sitting down in the chair next to Bofur, making sure to keep a respectful distance from him. Even though it looks like it should be horribly painful for him to move, Killian tenses his body and shifts ever so slightly away, unswollen eye wide and watching her nervously.

“Hello, Killian,” she says quietly, smiling as warmly as she can at him though her heart is breaking.

“This is Dís,” Bofur explains. “When you’re feeling a bit better and ready to leave the hospital, you’ll go and stay with her. She’ll be your foster mother.” At that, Killian’s gaze shifts back to the social worker, confusion and nervousness swirling in the brown depths. Bofur understands the unspoken question. “You’ll never have to go back to that house, Killian,” he murmurs. “You’re safe. No one will ever hurt you like that again. Dís will keep you safe.”

When Killian turns his eyes back to her, looking at her with such fear and doubt in his eyes, she nods, and gives him a reassuring smile. A relieved sob bursts free from him then, followed by a sharp gasp of pain, before he dissolves entirely into tears.

She has to fight every instinctive bone in her body that tells her to rush to him and gather him into her arms, knowing from his body language that physical contact was more than likely unwanted by the boy, even if it was meant as a comfort. Bofur rises quietly and retrieves some tissues and a small cup of water from a nearby table, patting a hand on her shoulder as he passes. He sets the tissues down just by Killian’s side, careful not to touch him and startle him further, and places the cup of water on the bedside table.

Killian’s distress causes the nurse to rush back in. “I’m just going to give him something to help him relax and sleep,” she explains, retrieving a syringe and adding it into the boy’s IV tube. “I don’t want to risk him injuring himself further.”

The medicine has an almost instant effect, as the boy’s gasping cries quickly die down as he sinks further into the mattress of the hospital bed. In less than a minute, he’s asleep, breathing deep and even, and Bofur grabs the tissues to wipe the tears from his face gingerly while the nurse reclines the bed and adjusts him into a more comfortable sleeping position.

All Dís can do is stare, open-mouthed, at what is happening before her, marveling at Bofur’s quiet strength as her heart breaks for this boy she’s only just met.

\------

The drive home is uneventful, given the early hour. She half wishes she’d accepted Bofur’s offer for a ride home – she feels entirely exhausted and drained of _everything_ , and is immensely grateful that tomorrow is Saturday and she doesn’t have to work. She frowns as the pulls into her driveway, noting the light on in the living room, and hopes that her boys simply forgot to turn it off, instead of waiting up all night for her.

“Mama!” Pippin shouts as soon as she pushes the door open, rushing at her with far more energy than any child should have at four in the morning. “Did you bring us a new brother or sister?” he asks, craning his head around her to see. Fíli’s head pokes around the wall next, wearing an apologetic look, mouthing a ‘sorry’ to her at his little brother’s enthusiasm.

“Not today, sweetheart,” she murmurs tiredly. “He’s not ready yet.”

Pippin frowns at that. “Why?” he asks, in a childlike fashion that is equal parts endearing and annoying.

“Because he’s not!” Fíli says, swooping in behind him and hefting him up into the air and Pippin squeals excitedly. “And it’s time for little _monsters_ like you to get back to bed!”

“But m’not tired!” Pippin protests loudly, even as he covers his mouth as he yawns.

Fíli chuckles lightly. “Of course you’re not,” he says fondly as he hauls the youngster off to his bedroom. "And you'd best not be waking little Frodo, or  _you'll_ have to stay up all night with him!"

Dís collapses onto the sofa of their living room, the exhaustion of the day finally setting in and wearing down on her. She holds her face in her hands, grief clawing at her after learning of Killian’s story, and knowing, beyond any and all doubt, that there were hundreds more children _just like him_ , or _worse_. She couldn’t imagine…she was forced to overcome tremendous obstacles to have a child; Fíli was a _gift_ , and Ori, Pippin, and Frodo were just as much, just as _precious_.

She doesn’t realize she’s crying until she feels the sofa dip next to her and a strong set of arms wrap around her.

“Mama…” Fíli breathes out. “Mama, it’s okay. Whatever it is, it’ll be okay.”

Embarrassed, she quickly composes herself, wiping the tears from her face and mustering up a warm smile for her eldest. “I’m alright, darling,” she promises, though her voice trembles and her eyes are watering.

He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it go for the moment, leaning in a pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Are we getting a new sibling?” he asks, though it’s hesitant.

She nods. “He needs a few days to…recover. Then he’ll come to live with us,” she confirms.

Fíli’s brow furrows. “Did something bad happen to him?”

She swallows thickly around the lump in her throat. She doesn’t want to tell Killian’s story – it’s not _hers_ to tell – but she wants to be honest with her son. “Yes,” she says quietly. “We have to…we’ll have to be very careful with him. And patient. But he needs us. He needs someone.”

Fíli gives her a soft smile, one that is so much like his father's. “We’ll take good care of him Mama. I promise.”

\------

He doesn’t know what to think, so he tries not to.

He’s lost track of how long he’s been in the hospital. He’s not able to sleep on his own, not without horrible nightmares about all that has passed, and the nurses come intermittently to give him medicine to let him sleep. He wants to thank her, the woman who is constantly looking after him, but he’s too terrified to open his mouth to speak.

Look where that had gotten him.

He shudders, squeezing his eyes tightly closed and willing his thoughts to turn a different direction. He doesn’t want to remember...that. He doesn’t want to think about it.

But the aching in his bones is a constant reminder, and he can’t _help_ it.

His father had been so _angry_ at him, and he didn’t have a clue as to why. He’d spent countless hours wracking his brain, trying to figure out what he had done that cause all of this. It had to be his fault. It was _always_ his fault. The older man had yanked him into their living room by his arm before he’d even had a chance to close the front door, face cherry red with anger. He doesn’t remember much else. He’d been hit in the head, something his father _never_ did during the school year – it was too _obvious_ , someone would notice - and his vision swam and his thoughts blurred and everything hurt before it lurched to black.

He’d woken in the back of the ambulance, with Mister Bofur sitting beside him and a paramedic fussing over him. He’d tried to get away…he didn’t want anyone to _touch_ him; it _hurt_ …but Mister Bofur had spoken calmly to him, told him to relax. He _tried_ , he really did, but he couldn’t stop himself from flinching away every time someone reached for him.

Then they’d told him that his father had killed his mother while he’d been unconscious, and that he’d tried to shoot the police and wound up killed in the process. And it was all because of _him_.

He feels sick.

Part of him hoped that Mister Bofur would come to visit him again today. He liked the older man; the social worker had always been kind to him. And Killian had wanted to tell him the truth – _so much_ – but his father had threatened to kill anyone that he talked to, so he’d kept his mouth shut. He almost had, a few years ago, but instead of his confession, the only thing that came out was the cold, rehearsed, “my parents take good care of me.” The man was surely disappointed in him, now that he’d caused such a mess.

He had so many things that he wanted to ask. He wanted to know what happened, what it was that made his father snap that way, so he could make sure to never do it again. His parents…it was _his_ fault that they were both dead now, and even though he truly didn’t like them very much, they were all he had, and he _loved_ them. He only wanted to make them proud…to make them love him in return. And he’d failed.

He’d messed everything up. He’d made such a terrible, horrible mess of things. All of this was his _fault_.

Familiar feelings of guilt and confusion wash over him, and, with a frustrated whine, he curls back in on himself and cries himself to sleep.


	3. things are gonna change now for the better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killian meets Dr. Fundin. Dís takes him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: vague description of child abuse and a panic attack

Dwalin Fundin was easily the best child psychologist in the city. Bofur had been sending him clients for _years_ , and he was always amazed at how well he was able to help these children heal after such traumatic incidents.

Unfortunately, Dwalin Fundin _also_ happened to be a six-foot-five brick house of a man, still broad and muscular from his days of playing college rugby, a detail that clearly hadn’t gone unnoticed by Killian, as he stood frozen and unsure in the doorframe.

It had been three days since the _incident_ , as he’d taken to calling it. Killian was able to move more easily now, as some of the bruising and soreness had started to fade, but he was still understandably shaken and flighty, and he’d yet to utter a single word. Bofur wanted to get him sent home with Dís soon, but the hospital kept insisting on keeping him for _one more day_.

The morning after Killian had been admitted, they’d uncovered some internal bleeding from a lacerated spleen, and had rushed the boy in for emergency surgery to stop it. The abdominal incision needed a few days to heal up before they felt comfortable releasing him, but he could tell that the boy was growing tired of being constantly poked and prodded and living in complete and utter limbo. He needed to get him somewhere _stable_ , and soon, if they had any hope of healing the wounds on his soul.

With a sigh, he squats down to be at Killian’s eye level. The brown eyes are questioning, _afraid_ , and he has to resist the urge, once again, to reach out and comfort him. ”Not to worry, lad,” he says, mustering up an encouraging smile. “Mister Dwalin only looks scary. He’s just a big teddy bear.”

“Hey!” Dwalin grumbles in mock indignation, smiling all the while, and Bofur breathes a quiet sigh of relief when Killian’s shoulders relax just slightly.

“Now, Killian,” he reminds softly, not wanting the lad to become agitated. “Mister Dwalin is here to talk to you. You’re safe here; I promise.” He waits until the boy nods at him in understanding. “He’s here to help you, alright? And I’ll be just outside if you need me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Killian nods again, but he looks a bit apprehensive about being left alone with the hulking man. He’s grown to trust Bofur in the days since the _incident_ , and he doesn’t want to ruin that trust.

In his heart he knows; if he loses that trust, he loses Killian.

* * *

He has to keep his anger in check as he takes in the lad Bofur has brought for him to speak with. The poor thing is beaten and bruised, flighty and afraid, all because the people who _should_ have loved him most used him as their punching bag. From what the social worker had told him, it seemed as though this had been going on the lad’s entire life, and they’d never been able to get clear, hard evidence to intervene before it all came to a head.

He normally starts his sessions by asking the children where they would like to sit, but Killian practically folds in on himself the second Bofur closes the door behind him. “Come, laddie,” he says gently, gesturing to an oversized armchair with a fluffy pillow perched in the middle of it. “Have a seat.”

Killian does as he’s asked, and, as Dwalin had thought he might, curls up in the armchair, adjusting the pillow so that it’s in his lap, his good arm wrapped around it, and the broken one hidden behind. It’s a defensive, withdrawn posture, one to make him feel relative secure on all sides.

“Are you thirsty?” he asks once the lad is settled, to which Killian immediately shakes his head as he averts his eyes to the floor.

Dwalin reaches for his pad of paper, jotting a few notes down before he settles himself down on the couch, a respectable distance away from the boy. “I just want to get to know you a little today, okay?” he explains. “I am not sure how much Bofur told you, but I am here to help you. I know there are a lot of things going on in your head, that you’ve probably got a lot of confusing feelings.” At that, Killian looks up at him, slight desperation in his eyes. “We’ll work through them, you and I. We’re a team. I’m here to talk, and to _listen_ to you, Killian.”

The boy’s hand tightens around the pillow, and his eyes fall to stare at his lap. Dwalin notices the odd behavior, and remembers what Bofur had told him of how the lad had been entirely silent since everything had happened. Most of the time, children would speak with him because he was new and different or because they didn’t think he would care enough to listen, but it seemed like Killian might be a little tougher than that. With a soft sigh, he rips off the first few pages from his notepad, and hands the notepad and pen to the boy, who stares up at him with a bewildered expression.

With a shrug and an easy smile, he explains. “I heard you like writing.”

The _barest_ hint of a smile pulls at Killian’s lips as he nods. ‘ _Thank you_ ,’ he writes.

The first questions are easy ones, ones that Dwalin already knows the answers to, but he asks to make Killian more comfortable with him. How old he is ( _12_ ), when his birthday is ( _December 21 st_), his favorite color ( _blue_ ) and the like. It’s slower going than normal, with the lad having to take the time to write and all, but after a while, Killian seems fairly relaxed in his presence and comfortable with him, and he decides to move on to some of the harder questions.

“So why is it that you’re not up to speaking?” he asks, in the same conversational and easy tone he’s been using. Killian looks up at him in surprise, eyes watering just a bit as he tenses once more. He stares down at the notepad, chewing on his bottom lip nervously. It takes a long moment, but Dwalin waits patiently until the boy presses the pen to the paper to reply.

‘ _I say the wrong things_ ,’ he writes.

Dwalin furrows his brow, caught just slightly off-guard by his response. Normally the children who were quiet were so out of fear or shock but this…this pointed to a deeper issue than just being traumatized by what has occurred. “How do you mean?” he asks for clarification, confusion creeping into his tone.

Killian stares at the paper for another long while, and he worries that he’s loosing the lad.

“Killian,” he calls quietly, frowning when he sees the tears building in the boy’s eyes. “Nothing you tell me will ever leave this room; I promise you. You can tell me.”

For a moment, he thinks the lad will actually speak, but he instead turns back to the paper, writing quickly. ‘ _I make him mad when I talk. No one cares what I have to say_.’

“Your father?” he asks for clarification, and Killian hesitates for a moment before nodding timidly. “He’s gone, lad. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

‘ _They’re dead because of me. It’s my fault. I said something_.’

“What did you say?” Dwalin asks, pleased that the boy is opening up to him, but knowing how difficult this must be for him, as fresh as his trauma was. He hadn’t meant to get so heavy in their first session together.

‘ _I wrote a poem and they asked me if everything was okay at home. I tried to lie but they didn’t believe me. I didn’t think they would call home but Mister Bofur said they did._ ’

“That doesn’t make it your fault,” he replies. “Your teachers have called home about you before, haven’t they?” He waits until Killian nods before he continues. “Other people are responsible for their own actions, laddie. You can’t hold yourself at fault for that.”

Killian looks at him, clearly desperate to believe him. With a soft, frustrated noise, he turns back to the piece of paper, furiously scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. He starts to write something, but scribbles it out. He realizes that the boy has started crying when several tears plop down onto the paper. Dwalin hastily rises from his seat, grabbing a nearby box of tissues, setting them onto the arm of the chair before kneeling down on the ground in front of him. Killian takes one of the tissues and wipes at his face, taking deep and even breaths to calm himself down. Dwalin notices that he’s written something else on the notepad.

‘ _I didn’t mean for them to die._ ’

“Killian, look at me,” he asks. The boy just shakes his head, attempting to curl into himself. Dwalin reaches forward, gently pulling the pillow, notepad, and pen from the lad, setting them down on the floor. Gently, and slowly, he reaches for his good hand and pulls it away from his face. He’s surprised when Killian doesn’t try to pull away, and uses his free hand to retrieve a tissue and wipe the tears from the boy’s face.

He doesn’t say the words out loud, but Killian mouths ‘thank you,’ once he’s calmed back down.

“Listen to me,” he requests softly. “You did not do this. This is not your fault.” Killian shakes his head, but Dwalin holds firm. “It’s _not_.”

Killian gestures for the pen and notepad again, so he reaches down to grasp them and hands them back to the lad. ‘ _If I hadn’t said anything this wouldn’t have happened._ ’

“How do you know that?” he asks. “Do you think they would have stopped? How do you know that it wouldn’t be _you_ they’re burying instead?”

That seems to be something the lad hadn’t considered, based on the way his face positively crumples.

“I’ve seen it before, Killian. Too many times,” he murmurs, speaking as though this is a secret for him to know. “Too many children who _don’t_ say anything, who think things will get better. But it _doesn’t_. This had been happening your entire life, hasn’t it?”

The boy nods, reaching up to wipe away some of the tears than have started to fall again.

“They wouldn’t have stopped,” he says quietly. “No matter how well behaved you were…how _perfect_ you were…it wouldn’t have stopped this. Not until you were dead.”

Killian chokes on a stuttering sob, reaching for the notepad again. ‘ _I just wanted them to love me. I don’t know what I did wrong_.’

“Nothing, Killian. You did nothing wrong,” he affirms. “ _They_ did, but not you. Never you.”

The boy doesn’t look convinced, but he eventually nods. Dwalin pulls himself up from the floor and moves to settle back onto the couch. They don’t have a lot of time left for their session today, and he worries that he’s put Killian through too much for one day. He doesn’t want to drive him away or make him shut down, but he _knows_ that all of these things have to come out in order for him to heal.

By the time he sits, Killian holds the notepad out to him once more, questioning look in his eyes. ‘ _What’s going to happen to me now?_ ’

Dwalin gives him a warm smile. “Well, once the hospital decides that you’ve healed up enough, you’re going to go to live with Dís and her boys.”

‘ _Do you know her?_ ’

He chuckles. “You could say that. Her brother and I have been close friends since we were children. She’s like a sister to me. Have you met her?”

‘ _Once. Right after. I didn’t know what was happening._ ’

“She’s nice. She and her boys will take good care of you,” he says, just as he catches the boy’s confused look. “Her sons. There are four of them, if I’m not mistaken; one of her own and three fosters.”

Killian’s brow furrows. ‘ _Like me?_ ’

Dwalin purses his lips for a moment in thought. “In a way. They’re good lads, though. There’s Fíli, her biological son. He’s the oldest, and a good lad, though they’re all good kids. Then Ori, who’s the same age as Fíli, Pippin, who’s a little younger than you, and baby Frodo,” he elaborates. “They’ll look after you.”

Kíli fiddles with the pen in his hand, a question clearly brewing in his mind. Eventually, he writes it out. ‘ _Why does she do that?_ ’

He assumes that Kíli wonders why she fosters children, and while he has a good idea as to why, he’d rather Dís answer that in a few days in her own words. “I’ll let her explain it to you; it’s not really my story to tell,” he says, to which Killian looks disappointed, but nods nonetheless. He glances up at the clock, realizing that he’s run over his time and needs to prepare for his next client.  “Alright then, laddie,” he says, standing from the couch and seemingly startling the young lad. “That’s enough for today, okay?”

Killian frowns, and scribbles something down on the pad of paper and showing it to him. ‘ _Do I get to see you again?_ ’

Dwalin gives him a warm smile in an attempt to ease the anxiety he sees in the boy’s features. “Of course, laddie. Once a week for sure, but anytime you want to or need to, I’ll be here.”

A tiny, relieved smile comes across the boy’s face.

* * *

 

She chews on her thumbnail the entire drive into the city. Bofur had called her with an update, saying that Killian was doing much better after his surgery and had done great during his first session with Dwalin. She was saddened to learn that he still wasn’t speaking, but beyond grateful that her old friend had managed to help the boy open up. With those two steps accomplished, the hospital had decided he was ready to be released, and she was on her way to pick him up before she’d even gotten off the phone with him.

She was ready to get him home, but she was terribly, horribly anxious. There was little to no room for error with him – if she messed this up, if Killian felt ostracized coming into their home, then she had no hope for putting him back together.

“Relax, Mama,” Fíli says quietly from the passenger seat. “Everything’s been ready at the house for days.”

She glances at him quickly, offering a small smile. “I know,” she murmurs. “I just want him to feel welcomed, is all.”

“He will. Ori did and Pippin did and I’m sure Frodo did, even though he threw up on me,” he says with a smile.

She laughs outright at that. “As long as Pippin doesn’t tackle him as soon as he comes through the door, I think he’ll be alright,” she adds with a hint of amusement in her voice.

“He won’t” Fíli assures her, tone turning a bit more serious. “I think…I mean when you told us what had happened to him, I think he realized how careful we need to be.”

She hadn’t divulged a ton of information to the boys, but she had let them knew he was coming from an abusive situation and that they needed to be careful and calm around him. She didn’t worry about Fíli and Ori – both of them were calm and mellow boys in general – but Pippin could be a bit of a handful. The younger boy’s face had turned unexpectedly somber at the news, a reminder her that, while no one had ever actually hit Pippin, his original, adoptive parents had used the threat often enough to try and calm his active behavior.

Before she realizes it, she’s pulled into the hospital parking garage and parked her car, the weight of the situation sitting heavy on her heart. Fíli reaches over to squeeze her hand and give her a comforting smile. “Ready?” he asks.

She shakes her head with a small smile. “No. But when are we ever?”

Bofur is waiting for them in the front lobby. He enthusiastically waves them over, but she can clearly see the nervousness in his expression. “Hello, Fíli!” he greets warmly. “I was hoping you’d be along with us today.” He leads them into a nearby elevator, quickly punching the button for the appropriate floor. “Now, I do want to warn you; he’s had a long day. Right near exhausted, honestly. I’m worried all this will overwhelm him, so be patient with him.”

She and Fíli both nod in understanding as the elevator doors slide open again. This time, when she sees Killian, he’s out of bed and dressed, and it becomes apparent how thin the boy is. He’s wearing an oversized blue sweater and old, worn jeans, broken arm still strapped to his chest. The bruises on his face have faded significantly in the last few days, but his eyes are still rimmed red and puffy from crying or lack of sleep or both.

“Hello again, Killian,” she greets warmly enough, and he turns cautious, wary eyes to her, nervously glancing at Fíli. “This is my son, Fíli,” she explains. He doesn’t say anything, but he manages to raise his hand in a weak wave. A quick glance at his face shows her that he’s obviously fighting his anger at the situation. It was one thing to be told someone had been a victim of abuse; it was another altogether to see it.

“Dís, we’ll need to have you sign some paperwork before he can be released,” Bofur says, when the air becomes thick with silence, and the pair excuses themselves quickly, eager to get Killian out of the hospital and into better place.

Fíli tries to think of something to say, as Killian continues to watch him nervously. He’s normally good with words, but they fail him, and he busies himself with looking around the room and trying not to stare at him while he quells his anger. He’s saved from the growing awkwardness by a nurse who bustles into the room with a wheelchair.

“All right, my dear,” she says with an overly chipper tone. “I know it’s silly, but we have to discharge you in the wheelchair.” She reaches for his shoulder, tugging at it to pull him to sit, but he flinches away from her out of habit, bumping into Fíli in the process and stumbling to the ground. Instinctively, Fíli reaches out to catch him, and succeeds in grabbing his unbroken arm and hauling him back up. Killian frantically tries to pull away from him, a frustrated, terrified noise wrenching itself free from his throat.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Fíli says calmly, letting go of his arm as soon as Killian is standing on his own two feet, holding his hands up in surrender to show that he means no harm. “I just didn’t want you to fall.”

Killian takes a step back from him, heaving in deep breaths, looking between Fíli and the gob-smacked nurse as he wraps his good arm around his torso. He steps back again until his heels hit the wall behind him.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Fíli says, extending a hand out in an offer to help him. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The nurse nods in agreement. “Come and sit, Killian,” she implores softly. “I’ll be more careful this time.

Bofur and Dís choose that moment to reenter the room, and once Killian can see the social worker he visibly relaxes.

“Everything okay in here?” Bofur asks, eyes watching Killian’s apprehensive face.

The younger boy looks back at Fíli’s hand, then up to his face. Fíli nods at him, offering a small smile of encouragement and support. He takes a deep breath, the steps forward and takes Fíli’s hand, accepting his help as he settles into the wheelchair.

* * *

Once they’re in the car and on the move, his doubts start to creep in again. Every breath takes him farther away from Mister Bofur and Mister Dwalin, the only two people in this world that he thinks he can trust. But they’d _both_ assured him that he would be safe with Dís and her family, and he tries to keep that in mind.

Dís and Fíli are talking amicably, and he tries to follow their conversation in an effort to keep his troubled thoughts away. Neither one is talking to him, not really, but they occasionally ask him what he thinks or if he likes something. A couple of times he tries to answer, but the words turn to ash in his throat. He’s grateful that they are understanding and not trying to force him into talking, but not outright ignoring him, either.

They seem nice enough, but so had his parents when they’d wanted to put on a show.

He watches the lights from the city start to fade. He’d lived in a row house there with his parents his entire life, and honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d left. It was equal parts terrifying and comforting to know that he was departing. Everyone keeps telling him that he’s safe, that his parents can hurt him anymore, and he tries to believe them.

He _wants_ to believe them, he really, _really_ does, but his parents were all that he’d ever known. There were no grandparents, no aunts or uncles or distant cousins…all of those were beautiful things found in movies or dreams, but not for him. He couldn’t figure out how to make them love him the right way, so how in the world was he supposed to get these perfect strangers to? What if he just messes everything up again?

With a sigh, he presses his forehead against the cool glass of the window, focusing on the way the city bleeds into the suburbs, watching the neighborhoods that pass them by while half listening to the words Fíli and Dís are saying.

He doesn’t realize that he’s fallen asleep until he feels the car stop, and he jerks awake at the halt in movement, looking questioningly at Dís.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” she murmurs apologetically. “Bofur said you were tired; I didn’t want to wake you.”

He blinks owlishly at her, confused by the endearment ( _she doesn’t even know him_ ). Behind him, he hears Fíli getting out of the car, and notices how Dís starts to do the same. He looks up at the house they’re parked in front of, gasping at the sheer size of it and the ornate stonework on the front of the building.

The door beside him is opened, revealing Fíli. “It’s a family house,” he explains at his bewildered expression. “My great-grandfather owned a mining company that had a quarry around here ages ago.” He offers his hand to help again, but Killian doesn’t take it this time, instead working his way out of the car as gingerly as possibly, muscles still sore and protesting so much movement.

“I don’t know if the other boys will still be up,” Dís says once they join her at the door. “It’s a bit later than I thought it would be.”

They step into a rather large sitting room, and Killian’s eyes widen at the floor-to-ceiling bookcases that flank a cozy fireplace. Fíli notices his gaze and gives him a warm smile. “Like to read?” he asks, and Killian can only nod in reply. “Ori does too.”

“So here’s the kitchen,” Dís continues, taking them on a quick tour of the downstairs. Killian can go little more than stare at the large rooms, filled with comfy looking furniture, luxurious looking but still homey and comfortable and…safe.

“Mama is that you?” someone calls from behind them, and he nearly falls over himself when he whirls around in surprise. Fíli reaches out a hand to steady him again, and he idly wonders how the older boy could care so much about him when they don’t even know each other.

“Oh, there you are, Ori!” she calls as an older looking boy with sandy red hair emerges from the stairs. As soon as he reaches the bottom step, another, younger, boy with cinnamon colored hair practically barrels into him.

“Pippin!” Ori whisper-shouts, clearly annoyed at his younger sibling.

“Killian, this is Ori and Pippin,” Dís introduces, and he instinctively shrinks back. Ori waves politely, but Pippin is practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. Ori reaches forward and claps a hand on his shoulder, holding him down into place.

“Maybe you boys should go back up to bed,” Dís says softly, casting a meaningful glance at the pair. “Killian needs to get settled and get some sleep. There’s plenty of time for visiting tomorrow.”

Pippin’s face falls, but Ori nods in understanding, bidding them all a good night before leading his little brother up the stairs.

“They’re just excited to meet you,” she explains once they’ve disappeared. “Pippin especially.”

Killian nods in understanding before yawning widely, futilely covering it with his hand. “Mama, maybe we should continue the tour tomorrow?” Fíli asks, casting him a worried glance.

Dís shakes her head in embarrassment. “Oh, where are my manners, hmm? I’m sorry dear. Let’s get you up to your room and in bed.”

He wants to tell her that she doesn’t need to apologize, but he’s so far out of his element and he’s honestly a little terrified. All he manages to do is nod and follow behind the pair as they ascend the stairs. “This is a bathroom that you’ll share with Fíli,” she says, opening a door and peering in. “And this is Fíli’s room,” she explains as she gestures to another door. They continue the rest of the way down the hall, where Dís pushes in the last door. “And this is your room.”

Killian steps into the room, jaw dropping when he takes in the furnishings. There’s a large bed, a desk, and two bookcases, along with a sizable dresser situated in front of a picture window. He turns back to the pair of them, shaking his head in disbelief.

 _This is too much_ , he wants to say. _I don’t deserve this_.

“I guessed on your sizes, but there’s some clothes for you in the dresser. Get some sleep, sweetheart,” Dís says quietly. “My room is at the other end of the hall. Fíli is right next-door. Alright?”

All he can do is nod dumbly again, struck into silence by her unwavering kindness. True to her word, the dresser is stocked with clothes for him. There’s a pair of soft looking pajama pants laid out on the bed, clearly intended for him to wear. His fingers reach out to brush along the plush comforter laid atop the bed.

 _You don’t deserve this_ , this father’s voice sneers in his head. He jerks his hand back in surprise, cradling it up next to the broken one still strapped to his chest.

It takes him a long moment to calm himself down, to remind himself that his father is _dead_ and can’t hurt him anymore, but the voice still nags in his head.

_Worthless. Useless. Idiot. You don’t deserve this._

_Don’t deserve love._

_Don’t deserve_ anything.

He wonders if this is a trap, if his parents aren’t still hiding somewhere and waiting for him to mess up so they can punish him. All he had was Bofur’s word that they were gone. What if that was a lie?

His chest starts to feel tight and it becomes harder to breathe, even though he’s drawing in gasping breaths of air. He doesn’t know what to do or where to go. Blackness starts to creep in on his vision, and he can hear them shouting at him, like they’re right next to him, screaming directly into his ear. He blindly gropes out for the wall with his good hand, finally finding it and pressing his back against it. They’re still screaming at him. He can feel their hands on him now, pulling and twisting and bruising and _hurting_.

_Stop. Please! I’m sorry. Stop!_

He doesn’t realize he’s screaming out loud until Fíli’s voice cuts through the cacophony in his mind. He finally forces himself to focus on blue, blue eyes, tries to make sense of the words the other boy’s mouth is forming. Fíli’s hand is on his cheek, cupping it gently, and Killian realizes that he is clutching the other’s arm with a death grip.

“Killian. Killian! Look at me, okay?” Fíli is begging him. He finally manages to focus on his face, realizing that his breathing is coming easier. “It’s Fíli. It’s just me. You remember me, don’t you?”

He shakily nods and tries to focus on the older boy’s face.

“Yea?” Fíli asks. “You…do you remember where you are?”

He nods again, swallowing thickly and wondering how he wound up on the floor with Fíli hovering over top of him. The older lad helps pull him into a sitting position, and Dís appears behind him with a glass of water. It takes too much energy to stay sitting on his own, and he almost immediately slumps into Fíli’s side.

“Just breathe, sweetheart,” she encourages quietly. “You’re alright.” When he manages to get his breathing under control, she presses the glass into his hand, urging him to drink and soothe his raw throat.

He’s immensely grateful that neither of them pester him questions or try to get him to talk. He feels weary and worn and battered down, completely and utterly _broken_ , and all he wants to do is sleep.

“Come on,” Fíli murmurs once he’s considerably calmer. “Let’s get you into bed.” He and Dís both work to pull him up into a standing position and guide him over to the bed. He feels embarrassed and completely helpless, but his legs are like jelly and he feels sick and dizzy. They pull off his worn jeans and change him into the pajama pants, and Dís removes the sling for his arm before they get him tucked in under the covers.

“Just try to get some sleep, sweetheart,” Dís murmurs once he’s tucked in and comfortable. She idly brushes his hair away from his face, and he’s grateful for the comforting gesture. It feels nice. Safe.

They both stay next to him, Dís’s fingers steadily carding through his hair, until he drops off to a deep and dreamless sleep.


	4. words, like secrets are the hardest thing to keep from you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killian's first morning doesn't go as smoothly as Dís would have liked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, naturally, i didn't get to the major plot point that i wanted for this chapter. un-beta'd as usual, so all mistakes (and i'm sure there are plenty) are mine. message me if you catch anything.
> 
> warnings: nothing major in this chapter, except mentions of child abuse and a fairly graphic description of Killian's injuries.

Pippin is standing in the darkened hallway when they step outside, assured that Killian is comforted and asleep. His green eyes are wide and frightened, and he doesn’t hesitate to accept Dís’s offer to gather him up into her arms and embrace him.

“Mama is he okay?” the young boy asks tearfully as he burrows his face against her neck. “He sounded hurt.”

“Shh, darling,” she murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the curls atop his head. “He’s alright. Just a bad dream. Remember how you used to have them when you first moved here?”

Pippin nods. “But we’ll make ‘em better?” he slurs sleepily.

A small smile pulls at her lips. “We will,” she promises him. “Come on then, let’s get you back to bed, hmm?”

Fíli lingers outside of Killian’s door, fingers brushing against the knob as he hesitates to go back to his own room and attempt sleep. Dís notices, and she takes her free hand and rubs it along his shoulders gently.

“I’ll stay up and watch over him, sweetheart. You need to get your rest,” she says quietly.

He looks up at her, blue eyes unsettled, but nods nonetheless. “Mama I’m worried,” he admits when they come to his own door, gaze drifting back down the hall toward Killian’s room.

Dís adjusts her hold on Pippin, who’s already nodding off to sleep. “He’s had a long day,” she murmurs, before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Fíli’s forehead. “Bofur thought he might get a bit overwhelmed, remember? Tomorrow will be better.”

He nods and utters a quiet ‘good night’ to her before slipping into his own room.

She gets Pippin back into bed and tucked in, and pops her head in to check on Ori and Frodo, pleased to see them both sleeping soundly, before creeping back into Fíli’s room. He is, predictably, staring broodily at the ceiling, looking every bit like his father. With a sigh, she settles herself down as his bed, hand automatically moving to brush through his short blond hair.

Fíli’s eyes slip closed and he hums quietly in appreciation. They sit in comfortable silence for a while, Dís ever aware of her son’s unsettled mood.

“Thank you,” she murmurs after a while. “I don’t know what you said to him, or _how_ you knew how to calm him down.”

Her son frowns. “It was like he didn’t know where he was. He was so scared, Mama.”

She bends down and presses another kiss to his forehead. “I don’t think he knows he’s safe yet,” she says quietly. “It will take him some time to feel comfortable with us. Though, I think he likes you.”

Fíli furrows his brow. “How do you mean?”

“In the hospital, he took your hand…Bofur said that he hadn’t let anyone touch him, and her certainly hadn’t reached out to anyone,” she explains. “I think…he _wants_ to trust you. He’s trying, at least. We just have to give him time.”

Fíli sniffles quietly. “It’s not fair,” he whispers, sounding utterly dejected.

“It’s not,” she agrees. “But we’ll make it right again, my darling. We’ll help him heal.” Her son nods, eyes eventually slipping closed. He falls asleep in a matter of moments, but Dís finds herself sitting there at the head of his bed for several hours more, lost in her thoughts.

* * *

 

He wakes to a cocoon of warmth and comfort. He thinks he’d like to stay there forever, but his head hurts and his arm is throbbing fiercely and he can feel the soreness in his stiff, achy muscles.

Memories of the night before come rushing back to him, and he shivers despite the warmth that surrounds him. He wasn’t entirely sure what happened…one minute he was getting ready for bed and the next…it was like he was right back in his old house with his parents. It was like they were _right there_. He could practically _feel_ their hands on him. He takes a deep breath, resolutely turning his thoughts away from the past. Bofur had told him to focus on the present and his future. The past was done. Over. He needed to forget and move on.

Sitting up requires no small amount of effort, his still-healing ribs and broken arm acting as supreme hindrances. The sunlight streaming in through the window is soft, like dawn, and he can hear the sounds of people milling about downstairs, broken pieces of conversations drifting up through the hallway. The room is just as he’d remembered it from the night before, but now there is a glass of water and a note on the nightstand beside him.

On closer inspection, the pain pills the doctors had prescribed him sit atop the note, and he gratefully takes them, draining half the glass without a second thought. The note, written in what he assumes is Dís’s neat script, tells him that breakfast is waiting for him downstairs when he’s ready for it.

He stares at the paper for a long moment. Making breakfast was _his_ job. Was she going to be disappointed in him because she’d been forced to prepare it instead? Had he already messed up here, on his first day? He rubs his hand across his tired eyes, taking a deep breath to settle his nerves. She doesn’t _seem_ like the type who would be upset with him over something as simple as breakfast.

But still, he’d been punished for less before.

‘No,’ he tells himself. ‘No. She’s not _them_.’ He mentally repeats that over and over again in an effort to believe it.

He likes her, so far. He really does. She’s been nothing but kind to him, even though he doesn’t deserve such treatment from her. She’d even gone out of her way to find _clothes_ for him. It was such a small, simple thing, but getting clothes from his parents usually meant doing chores and being punished for forcing them to spend money. She didn’t even know him, he hadn’t even _spoken_ to her or acknowledged her, really, and she’d done that for him.

And then there was Fíli. He didn’t know why, but from the second he’d laid eyes on the older boy, he’d felt _safe_. Fíli was someone he _could_ trust, but he was scared to. It was blind trust that caused him to reach out and take the blond boy’s hand. He didn’t have any other way to explain what he’d done – he’d never, _never_ reached out to anyone for help before. Never. And after…whatever it was that had happened last night, it had been Fíli’s voice that called him back, Fíli’s hands that grounded him and held him steady.

He just didn’t understand. They didn’t _know_ him; how could they care so much to help him?

It didn’t make any _sense_.

His mind swirls with so many confusing thoughts as the scents from downstairs start to waft into his room ( _his_ room), and his stomach grumbles loudly. It does smell delicious, and he _is_ hungry, loath as he is to admit it. He takes several more breaths to steady himself, before pushing the covers off and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He gingerly slips down off the large bed, slowly making his way to the door. The hall is empty, but he can hear the muffled sounds of conversations from downstairs. Someone laughs mirthfully, and the rest join in.

Suddenly, he feels like an intruder. They’re _happy_ ; he’ll just be in the way, a _burden_.

He freezes in the doorframe, fingers of his good hand still grasping the knob, and his nerve crumbles. Swiftly, silently, he forces himself to move back into his room where he curls up under the covers and tries to block out the rest of the world.

* * *

 

She tuts quietly under her breath when she notices her eldest son staring, once again, at the landing of the stairs.

Dís knows that Fíli is worried for their newest addition, but she _also_ knows that Killian is well and truly exhausted and in dire need of his rest. She's fully aware of how loud and chaotic their house can be, and remembers how even rambunctious little Pippin had been timid and shy when he first came to live with them. It’s bound to be a bit too much for Killian to handle, and she knows they’ll have to ease him into their routines.

She finishes preparing the lunches for the school age boys and tucks them into their respective backpacks, cooing softly at Frodo in his high chair as she passes him before leaning on the kitchen island next to her son. Pippin is animatedly describing something that had happened in his gym class the day before to Ori, who sits good-naturedly and listens.

"You shouldn't fret so much, Fíli," she murmurs softly, rubbing his back comfortingly. "I'm sure he needs his rest. He’s probably not even awake yet."

"I know," her son returns immediately, jumping slightly at her light touch, indicating to her that he'd been deeply lost in his thoughts. "I just wanted to make sure he was alright this morning is all."

She dons a look of mock surprise and she cocks her hands on her hip. "You don't trust your old mum to look after him?"

Her gentle teasing pulls a soft smile out of him. "You know I do, mama."

"All will be well here, Fíli," she promises with a kiss to his brow. "You just worry about school today, alright?"

He sighs in resignation and nods, getting up from his seat and returning his dishes to the sink. Ori and Pippin do as well, realizing that the time to leave for school is upon them. "Bye, Frodo," Fíli says with a soft ruffle of the toddler's hair that Pippin immediately mimics.

Fíli pauses before digging through his backpack for a moment, producing a small green notebook and a pen. "Will you give him this?" he asks, handing it over to her. "I haven't used it yet, but you said he wrote things to Mister Dwalin, right?"

A small, pride-filled smile splits her face. "Yes, sweetheart; he did. I'll give it to him."

Fíli nods in relief, giving her a brilliant smile. "Thanks, mama." He turns to regard his brothers. "Come on you two; off to school."

She sends all of them off with kisses to their foreheads (and an additional hug for a very incessant Pippin), and the house falls much quieter the second the door closes behind them. She waits until she hears the sound of Fíli’s car starting and driving away before she turns to regard Frodo, who is babbling happily with Cheerios stuck to his face and mussed in his hair. It's quick work to get him cleaned up and deposited in his playpen with the baby monitor turned on. Then she sets about fixing a small plate of breakfast for Killian.

She’s honestly not sure if he’s up to eating in the first place, but she may as well try. She loads up a small tray with the plate, utensils and Fíli’s notebook and pen, before poking her head in to check on Frodo once more and heading up the stairs.

She knocks on the door, even though she doesn't expect a response. Quietly, she pushes the door open, smiling softly when she sees a pair of wary brown eyes peering at her from the bed. "Good morning, sweetheart," she calls, still staying outside the room to show him that she will respect his boundaries. "Are you hungry? I brought you up some breakfast."

The boy perks up a bit at that, nodding timidly to her to let her in.

"I didn't know what you liked, but we made eggs and bacon this morning," she explains as she sets the tray down on his side table. She's pleased to see that he took his pain medicine, as she worried that he may have missed a dose the night before in all of the chaos of getting him out of the hospital. "Oh, go ahead and eat, darling," she says when she notices how he is nervously eyeing the tray.

He instead reaches for the notebook and pen, hand hovering just over top of it as he looks at her questioningly.

She nods in encouragement. “Fíli wanted you to have that,” she explains as he gingerly reaches for it, small smile quirking her lips at the look of surprise that washes over his face. He wastes no time in opening the notebook and writing something in it, before turning it toward her, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

‘ _Was I supposed to make breakfast?_ ’

“No, sweetheart,” she says easily. “That’s my job. Though, when you’re feeling better, I wouldn’t mind an extra set of hands in the kitchen, if you wanted to help.”

He nods in acceptance, warily looking at the plate of breakfast before putting pen to paper once more. ‘ _What’s my job?_ ’

“Oh, I suppose we’ll sort that out later on,” she replies. “Right now, your job is to get better, however long that takes.”

He frowns at that, clearly confused by the notion. It suddenly occurs to her that he’s _always_ had chores and responsibilities, whether he was feeling well or not. He’d probably been forced to do far more than his own share, in addition to his schooling, and he’d probably been punished for the times when he did not. And now, it seemed like the lack of responsibility was causing him distress. It makes her stomach twist in an uncomfortable little knot, though she tries to cover it up with a soft smile.

“I’ll tell you what,” she continues a moment later. “Could you make sure your bed is made and clothes are put away every day?” At that, he visibly relaxes and eagerly nods. “But you ask for help if you need it, alright? _Especially_ while you’re still healing.”

Killian nods once more and _almost_ smiles. He swiftly writes something in the notebook. ‘ _Thank you_.’

“Of course, of course, sweetheart. You’re very welcome,” she murmurs. “Go ahead and eat your breakfast, alright? I need to go and check on the baby, but then we’ll get you into a nice, warm bath. Does that sound nice?”

He nods again, and she idly wonders how long it will be before he finds his voice again. Dwalin had warned her that it could take a long time, that his fear of speaking was deeply rooted in his trauma, though he couldn’t tell her how. With a sigh, she flashes him another warm, encouraging smile, before leaving him to his breakfast to tend to Frodo.

It’s too early to put the boy down for his nap, so she climbs into the playpen with him. Frodo squeals delightedly, picking up his new favorite toy – a Captain America ball – to show to her. He tries to toss it to her, but his chunky little arms don’t send the ball flying very far, and all he manages to do is throw himself off balance and plop down onto his bottom with a giggle.

With a laugh, she rolls the ball back to him. Frodo coos happily at the new game and attempts to roll it back to her, laughing and clapping every time he does.

After a while, Frodo grows tired of their game, choosing instead to crawl over to his play center where he busies himself with twisting knobs and mashing buttons. Dís glances at her watch, deciding that Killian has probably had enough time to eat his fill and relax a little, before he gingerly climbs from the playpen and heads back up the stairs.

She’s more than a little surprised to see Killian attempting to make the bed with one hand once she looks into the room. He moves stiffly, and it’s obvious that he’s still in a great deal of pain. A quick glance at the tray shows that he didn’t eat all of his breakfast, but he did eat _something_ , and for that she feels supremely relieved.

“Would you like some help, Killian?” she calls quietly into the room, but the boy still starts and looks around at her in surprise.

He bites his bottom lip before he timidly nods, head falling down in shame.

“Just until your arm is better,” she reminds him in a soothing tone, trying to show him that it really _is_ okay for him to ask for help when he needs it, that he doesn’t have to do everything on his own.

The bed is made in no time at all, and she turns to grab the breakfast tray. “I’ll just run this downstairs. Would you pick out some clothes you’d like to wear?”

Yet another nod is her cue to leave, and she hurries down the stairs, popping her head in to check on Frodo, who is still enraptured by the blinking lights and sounds coming from the activity center. She deposits the dirty dishes in the sink and leaves the tray for later, before grabbing a small trash bag and a roll of duct tape and heading back upstairs.

Killian has done as she’d asked, as is holding a light blue sweater and a pair of dark jeans when she comes to retrieve him. He casts an uncertain look at the trash bag and tape in her hands.

“It’s for your cast,” she explains quickly. “Can’t have it getting wet is all.” Dís offers him an encouraging smile. “Come along, sweetheart; let’s get you cleaned up.”

He follows along obediently behind her to the bathroom, but when he glances up at the mirror and catches his reflection in the mirror, he freezes, a small, shuddering gasp of surprise passing through his lips. Wide, hollowed eyes stare, unblinking, until the tears start.

She curses under her breath. Of _course_ he hadn’t seen himself yet, hadn’t seen himself with the long gash across his temple that was held together with butterfly stitches, or the angry purple-red bruises that covered half his face, or the blood in the white of his right eye that was still very swollen, or the dark purple-black bruising left by the fingers that had closed around his neck. Thus far he’d only felt, hadn’t _seen_ the horrible damage his father had left.

How could she have been so _stupid_? She should have prepared him better, should have _warned_ him, at the very least.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” she murmurs gently, cursing herself all the more at the way her voice shakes. “This will all be healed up soon. You’ll be well again in no time.”

Killian lets out a tiny, distressed wail and shakes his head, mouth quivering as the first few tears slip free. She reaches a hand up to comfort him, but hesitates, not wanting to cause him further distress. He turns to her, turns wide, tear-filled eyes up to her as he chokes out a sob, and she doesn’t hesitate then, doesn’t waste a _second_ in gathering him into her arms and holding him close as he sobs in earnest. His legs go weak and his knees buckle, but he clutches her close as they slide gracelessly to the ground.

Dís adjusts her hold on him, rocks him gently and does her best to soothe him. It doesn’t take him long to cry himself out – he doesn’t have the _energy_ – but once he does he sags bonelessly against her, face tucked in against her neck as he tries to get his breathing under control. She brings up a hand to card through his tangled hair, humming softly to help him calm down.

“M’sorry,” he rasps out, voice cracking from disuse.

She covers her gasp of surprise by pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re alright.”

They sit quietly for a long while, Killian focusing on calming his breathing and Dís rocking him gently. Eventually, she untangles his limp form from their embrace and props him up against the bathroom wall, turning to the sinks to wet a washcloth with cool water before pressing it to his face, carefully wiping the dried tears from his cheeks.

“Better?” she asks once her labor is complete. He nods, but otherwise stays still as a stone. She chews on the inside of her cheek, coming to a decision quickly. She rises up and turns to the tub, starting to fill it with warm water. “I need to step into the hall to make a phone call, alright? I’ll be right there if you need me, okay?”

He nods again, eyes staying fixed somewhere in the distance. He looks completely and utterly lost, and all Dís wants to do is get him in the warm bath to relax and tuck him straight back into bed.

With a sigh, she slips from the bathroom and pulls out her phone, checking on Frodo who is still absorbed with his toys in the playpen before dialing out.

The phone rings twice before her brother answers.

“Are you at work yet?” she asks immediately, completely ignoring his greeting.

If Thorin is offended by it, he doesn’t show it. “I’m on my way in now. Why?”

“I need you to come here,” she says flatly, craning her head to look into the bathroom, where Killian still sits exactly where she’d left him.

“Is everything alright?” he asks, and she can hear the concern in his voice.

“No,” she admits. “I need you to watch the baby while I take care of Killian.”

“What happened?” he asks, and she can hear the frown in Thorin’s tone as clear as day.

“I’ll…I’ll explain later. Are you able to come here?”

“Yea; no meetings this morning that Balin can’t take care of for me. I’ll be there in five,” he assures her.

She thanks him profusely before quickly explaining where she’ll be and what to do with Frodo, then hangs up the phone and returns to the bathroom. “Alright, sweetheart, let’s get you cleaned up then, shall we?”

Killian doesn’t respond, but he neither does he protest when she tugs his shirt over his head. A sob and a few more tears escape when he sees the state of his torso, which is also mottled with bruises. She works quickly to wrap the trash bag around his broken arm and seals it with the tape once she’s satisfied that water won’t be able to get in.

“You’re alright,” she soothes him as she pulls him to his feet and helps him finish undressing before guiding him into the bath. She frowns at how _thin_ he is; he’s _much_ smaller than she remembers Fíli or even Ori being at that age. The tension in his body ebbs away as soon as he sinks into the warm water, but his gaze stays unfocused as tears continue to trickle from his eyes.

She continues murmuring soft encouragements to him and works quickly to bathe him. He flinches and tenses a little when she urges him forward and tips his head back to pour water through his hair, mindful of getting water in his eyes or on the cast. She starts humming lightly as she works his hair into a thick lather with the shampoo, and he starts to relax again.

“All done, sweetheart,” she says softly, brushing some of the wet strands of his hair away from his face. He finally looks up at her, eyes focused but filled with more emotion than she can fathom. “I know you’re hurting right now, Killian,” she murmurs. “But all of this will be better soon. I promise.”

He blinks at her, a few more tears slipping out, but nods in acceptance anyhow.

She eases him up from the tub and wraps him in one of their fluffy towels before turning him to sit on the toilet. She grabs another towel to dry his hair, before reaching for a comb, pulling loose the snarls and tangles that have settled in. With a frown, she notices that it must have been a while since his last haircut, as the ends are all different lengths, and what she imagines is supposed to be his fringe is long and grown well past his eyes.

“Do you mind if I give you a little haircut?” she asks as she runs his fingers through his damp waves. He shakes his head, so she opens the medicine cabinet and pulls some scissors out. “Do you like it long? And with the fringe?” A nod, then, and she sets off to work, humming softly once more.

Ten minutes later sees him dressed in warm clothes with freshly trimmed hair, all of his injuries medicated and looked after. She can’t help but smile at how much better he looks already as she tucks some of his hair behind his ear. Killian’s eyes slipped closed at her contact, his fatigue becoming even more apparent.

“Let’s get you into bed for a nap, hmm?” she says softly.

He’s fast asleep before Dís even gets him tucked in, exhausted once again by the morning’s activities. She sits with him for a long while, fingers idly carding through his dark hair, quietly marveling at the strength of this little boy who has been forced to endure so much in his short lifetime.

A soft knock at the door startles her out of her thoughts as Thorin pokes his head into the room. “Frodo is down for his nap,” he says quietly, slight frown pulling at his normally stoic features.

She nods to him and rises from the bed, adjusting the covers around Killian’s shoulders before slipping from the room. “Thank you,” she murmurs once she’s in the hall. “We had a little…breakdown this morning, I’m afraid.”

Thorin glances back at the closed door. “Is he alright?”

She nods. “He…he will be. I hope.”

He throws an arm around her shoulders, squeezing gently. “With him in your care, I have no doubt that he will recover. It’s still the first day. Don’t fret, baby sister,” he adds with a smirk.

“I am _not_ a baby!” she protests lightly, shrugging off his comforting arm with a smile. “ _Frerin_ ought to be the baby; he acts like one!”

Thorin chuckles softly. “You’re still the youngest; you’ll _always_ be the baby.”

She laughs along with him, before her face turns a little more somber. “Thank you, again, Thorin. I didn’t mean to make you late for work.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replies. “Maybe bake Balin some of those biscuits he likes since he had to cover me,” he adds with a smile.

“Consider it done,” she promises. “Let me get you a cup of coffee before you go. Please?” she adds when he instinctively looks down at his watch. “It will just take a minute; I promise.”

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “If I _must_ ,” he teases, but follows her down the stairs and into the kitchen nonetheless. “Speaking of Frerin,” he says cautiously as he takes a seat at the island. “He called me this morning.”

She raises an eyebrow in surprise. Neither of them had heard hide nor hair of their wayward brother since he’d dropped everything and headed to Australia on a ‘quest to find himself in the Outback’. “I take it he didn’t get eaten by anything out there on his adventure?”

Thorin chuckles lightly and shakes his head. “No,” he affirms. “He actually…he said he’s coming home. To stay this time.”

She turns quickly to focus on the coffee maker, more so that Thorin can’t see her face than anything else. “He’s said that before,” she says tersely, not wanting to get her hopes up. She loved Frerin dearly, _really_ she did, but he had a bad habit of up and _leaving_ any time anything got difficult.

When their grandfather fell ill with Alzheimer’s and began to lose himself, Frerin left. When the quarry went bankrupt and their father drank himself to death, Frerin left. When Dís’s husband passed away, Frerin _left_ (despite the fact that he’d _promised_ Fíli he would stay). He’d only left for Australia in the first place because his girlfriend of four years had refused his proposal of marriage. How long would it be this time, she wondered, before _something_ went awry and Frerin fled, instead of dealing with it like an adult _should_.

“I really think he means it this time,” Thorin says quietly, in a somber tone that she rarely hears any more. “He…he sounded different. He even asked if I could help him find a job. He wants stability.”

Dís sets the coffee machine and turns back to him when it starts to percolate. “We’ll see,” she murmurs finally, still refusing to believe that Frerin would stay. “Don’t tell the boys yet. You know how they love him.”

Thorin laughs at that. “Yes; good old Uncle Frerin who bring the _best_ presents and the grandest stories.”

“I’m _serious_ ,” she scolds as she fetches a mug for him. “He really hurt them the last time.”

“I know,” he concedes with a sigh. “How are…how are the boys doing with the new addition. Killian, was it?”

She sighs heavily, and fetches another mug to make some coffee for herself. “We only got in late last night. Pippin is excited and Ori is keeping his polite distance and Fíli is worried sick.”

“So all is normal, then?” he says with a smile, gratefully taking the filled mug and adding a splash of cream.

Dís turns a worried eye to the stairs. “I don’t know, Thorin. I don’t know if I can do this.”

He frowns at her. “I know you said he was a tough case, but –“

“Abuse, Thorin. From his parents. His entire life,” she blurts out. “He’s hurt and terrified of _everything_ and I am so _scared_ of messing this up.”

“Dís, listen to me,” he interrupts her rambling, reaching across the island to grab her hand. “You are not going to mess this up. You’re _not_ ,” he reiterates when she shakes her head. “If…if _that’s_ what he’s coming from,” he elaborates with an angry snarl, “then he needs a family that _loves_ him. And there is no shortage of love in your house.”

“It was my fault that he broke down this morning,” she whispers, but Thorin quickly shakes his head.

“I can guarantee you that it was _not_ ,” he soothes. “He is calm and sleeping now, yes?”

She nods glumly. “Yes but-“

“But you did all you could,” he affirms. “I _know_ you, Dís; you’d give you last breath to help someone who needed it. There’s not a better place in this world for that boy.”

She gives him a small, grateful smile and nods, comforted by his words and doing her best to believe him.

Thorin squeezes her hand once more before returning to his coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, friends.


End file.
